


Only You, Hawke

by SailorFish



Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Drabble Collection, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Inquisitor!Hawke, M/M, Purple Hawke, Silly, Spoilers for the whole series!, With the occasional touch of seriousness and
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-23
Packaged: 2019-02-03 08:43:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12744909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorFish/pseuds/SailorFish
Summary: “Only you, Hawke,” Varric sighed.Hawke, the bloody bastard, had the gall to look vaguely offended. The light coming from his hand tinged his face an unearthly green; the eerie shadows cast by it seemed to be almost alive, stretching and flickering even when no one moved. (Hawke ruined the effect by attempting to make a truly awful shadow puppet of a mabari.)--A series of stupid drabbles in which Purple!Hawke accidentally stumbles into the role of Inquisitor.





	1. In which Hawke mainly meets a lot of people.

**i. In which Hawke isn't guilty, he swears!**

“Only you, Hawke,” Varric sighed.

Hawke, the bloody bastard, had the gall to look vaguely offended. The light coming from his hand tinged his face an unearthly green; the eerie shadows cast by it seemed to be almost alive, stretching and flickering even when no one moved. (Hawke ruined the effect by attempting to make a truly awful shadow puppet of a mabari.)

“It didn’t _have_ to be Only Me!” he said. “It could have been anyone - it was an _accident_. ...I, er, think.” The last was added as an afterthought. There were plenty of people who didn’t, people who were already muttering that Hawke had only come to the Conclave to finish what his fellow apostate had started in Kirkwall. His overly cheerful, wide-eyed protestations of amnesia didn’t exactly instill confidence. “I was probably just sauntering through, Varric! You know how I just love to saunter.”

Varric sighed again.

“You do love to saunter,” he admitted. “And stroll. And sashay. And sidle.”

“Don’t forget traipsing, moseying, and promenading!” added Hawke helpfully.

“I could never forget those, serrah!” A small smile tugged at the Dwarf’s lips, his first since Hawke had woken up bewildered and in pain. “Alright, Not Only You Hawke. Let’s see how this story unfolds. Just try to remember - the people here aren’t quite as fond of your good jokes as the ones back home.”

Hawke’s smile back was all teeth.

 

**ii. In which Hawke misses home.**

He swore he hadn’t always been a city boy. At some point, Hawke vaguely recalled, narrow streets and grey cobbles had only boxed him in, made him feel short of breath. What he wouldn’t do for a grimy alley now! Even the air in the Hinterlands was… clean. Too clean. Where was the stench of rotting fish, why was the sweet odour of fresh piss not wafting from the nearest corner? Andraste’s granny-panties, he wasn’t even coughing from the smog! Hawke rolled his shoulders uneasily, squinting up at the blue, blue sky. He missed home already.

 

**iii. In which Chuckles.**

“He calls you _Chuckles_?” The Herald’s eyes were narrowed.

“From time to time.”

“He used to call _me_ Chuckles! I can’t believe it! I thought what we had was special!!”

With that, the Champion-turned-Chuckles-turned-Herald flounced off, bottom lip quivering from sorrow.

 

**iv. In which Hawke is more detail-oriented than he thinks.**

Blackwall was talking.

He was probably talking.

He was most likely talking.

To be honest, Hawke had zoned out so completely at the first mention of ‘honour’ that he wasn’t even sure if the burly, _honourable_ man had finally shut up yet.

There was something niggling at the back of his mind though, something the Witch of the Wilds had said on the day Bethany had died. Weren’t there supposed to be only two Wardens left in Ferelden during the Blight?

One was the Hero of Ferelden of course, the other one the King. Hawke paused for a second, contemplating. Which one was Blackwall supposed to be then? He’d met the King, and he was pretty sure the Hero was supposed to be an elf. And female.

In the end though, he shrugged. Maybe she’d said three (his memories of the day were mainly of Bethany) and maybe she hadn’t.

Welp, if it turned out he was lying, Hawke could always roast him later. Also if he mentioned ‘honour’ one more time.

 

**v. In which no one is killed, to the vague surprise of both parties.**

“I like being your sort-of-boss,” Hawke announced.

His first reflex was to whirl around and reach for his sword, and Cullen tamped down on it harshly, trying to make the motion smooth and casual instead. He was just reaching to… adjust his belt. Yep. He straightened his back - just another soldier reporting for duty to the Herald of Andraste. Smooth, Cullen. An amused grin blossomed on Hawke’s face. Not that smooth then.

“What I like most,” said the Champion cheerfully. “Is that I can do _this_ ,” He brought his clenched fist up ( _not_ the one with the Mark) and opened it to a small fire dancing in his palm. “And I don’t have to worry about you dragging my brother with you to lock me up and/or make me Tranquil and/or kill me.”

The flame flickered violently. A muscle in Cullen’s cheek twitched. No sudden movements now…

“Not that I didn’t like our little game of pretend - You don’t know I’m a mage, I don’t know you don’t know I’m a mage… Or was it the other way around?”

_I know you’re a mage, you know I know you’re a mage, I know you know I know…_

His mouth was dry and he swallowed painfully, twice. No remembering the wild, inhuman snarl on the Champion’s face as he struck down the Knight-Commander, _no remembering the same wild, inhuman glint in Uldred’s eyes_. Finally, he managed to croak the words out.

“Were you looking for something in particular, Herald?”

Hawke beamed at him, shaking out his hand as the flame vanished.

“Just making small talk, Knight-Capt - ah, Commander,” And then Hawke put on a fierce scowl and drew his brows together, in what Cullen could only assume was his best mimicry of Meredith. He even affected a more high-pitched, feminine tone. “Keep up the good work, serrah.”

It could really only have been the insanity of the last few days that made Cullen inform him: “To be honest, I think you’d be better off _lowering_ your voice.”

And then he had to once again force his hand not to twitch in the direction of his sword. Did he have a death wish?! But Hawke just promised him he’d work on it, and then he strode off, still in Meredith mode and scowling so fiercely one of the greener recruits literally leapt out of his path.

Cullen’s shoulders sagged and it took several very deep breaths before he could get back to work.

(“I like being your sort-of-boss,” Hawke informed him again, a lot later.

The Commander nodded at him. So he was not to be removed from office after all. That made some tactical sense - training a new commander would take time, and the possible replacements were mostly people on the front lines with the Inquisitor himself. It would be hard to decide whether someone like that would be more useful in Skyhold or at Hawke’s back.

The same sort of good tactical sense meant that there was only one way this conversation could end: Hawke would command him to take the lyrium again. Something deep in his chest twinged at the thought. Of everyone, surely the _Champion_ would understand why Cullen wanted nothing to do with lyrium, with what he had done in Kirkwall and what he had let be done. But Hawke wasn’t the Champion anymore - he wasn’t even always Hawke, who lost miserably at board games and then dragged Cullen off to get drunk and lose even more miserably at cards. Sometimes, often, he was just His Worship, Lord Inquisitor. So Cullen nodded again, jerkily, and kept his head down.

“I think I changed my mind, though,” said Hawke, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “What I like most is that I can basically order you to do something, and you _have_ to do it.” He trailed off, then continued with a rather dreamy sigh. “All this power at my fingertips… And to think, I promised Varric I wouldn’t, er, _encourage_ people to have leapfrog races across my throne room… Basically, don’t take lyrium.”

Cullen’s head snapped up so fast his neck hurt. He was surely gaping at Hawke like a fool, but what else was he to do? Leapfrog to lyrium - _what_  -

“Look,” said Hawke, beginning to a shift a little uncomfortably at Cullen’s no doubt manic expression. “I have to spend the rest of the day discussing mage stuff with Solas. And I’m sure it’ll be very… interesting and I’ll even, ugh, _learn something valuable_ that I’ll then have to write down in great detail to send to Merrill. But also I might fall asleep on the table ten minutes in. Just let me have this, alright? I’m sure Josie would suggest we talk this through like normal adults - but I’m not very good at that, you’re worse, and ordering someone around is going to be the highlight of my day. So: I, your actual boss, command you to continue not taking lyrium.” Here, he brightened up considerably. “Actually, come get plastered, no, _sloshed_ with me and Dorian instead. Alcohol - the funner addiction!”

Cullen managed another jerky nod, but it wasn’t until he managed a _Yes, Inquisitor_ that Hawke brightly said, “Great! I’ll swing by and pick you up at eight!”

And with that, he swept off, leaving Cullen with sagged shoulders. Was it really that simple? He had promised after Meredith that he would never blindly obey orders again. But these orders coincided with what he truly wished for… Just this once then, just this once, he’d give in to what was easy. And even what was maybe right. It still took several very deep breaths before he could get back to work.)

 

**vi. In which Hawke finds a soulmate.**

“I’m gonna kill it,” said the Iron Bull.

“Imma ride it,” breathed Hawke, beside him.

Off to the side, Dorian and Varric groaned in unison; Hawke ignored them. He managed to tear his gaze away from the almighty beast to glance over at the Qunari.

It was times like this that Hawke really appreciated having the Iron Bull on his team. The first few weeks after recruiting the spy, he’d been tense: waiting for the dagger in his back, special delivery from the Arishok. To Varric’s horror, the paranoia had resulted in him dragging around the newest addition to the Inquisition absolutely everywhere. To Varric’s even greater horror, that paranoia had lasted only until they’d encountered the Fereldan Frostback, and Hawke had realised he’d just recruited his platonic soulmate.

Now, his eyes narrowed as he turned to his Qunari companion.

“No way,” he said, rather petulantly in Varric’s opinion. “We killed the Frostback before I got a chance to climb it, this time we’re doing it _my_ way.”

“But - ”

“Cassandra made _me_ the Inquisitor. That means we get to do it _my_ way and _you_ have to give me a leg up.” Hawke paused for a second, then he gave a long sigh of acceptance. “And _after_ that we can kill it, I suppose.”

He didn’t wait for either Bull’s delighted _Yes, Boss_ or Dorian’s hasty attempt at a barrier that would actually include all of them before charging in. ...Varric was getting too old for this. Next time, Sera could go.

 

**vii. In which the nerfing of mages in DAI is explained.**

The first time they went to battle, Hawke hung back. He surveyed the scene lazily, both head and hip cocked, undisputable king of his square metre of dirt. Cassandra gritted her teeth. Her muscles strained as she held steady against the Shade, buying Varric some valuable seconds to reload. Her feet dug into the mush of dirt and snow, trying to find purchase there and failing.

“Now might be a good time to act, Champion!” she called out, furious.

A wraith attempted to flank her, and was struck down by Solas’ ice spell. Eight more advanced. What was Hawke _doing_? Varric must have exaggerated even more than she had feared - why was -

And then Hawke finally waded in. He bashed one of the Shades over the head with his staff, spun around and swung hard at another. Then he inhaled deeply and raised his hands. When he exhaled it rained flames and lightning and death. Cassandra sprang back as the Shade she was wrestling with burned and vanished into ashes. The battle was over.

_Monster._

Solas was one of the most skilled mages she had ever met, swift and precise. But Hawke was a beast: the sheer amount of power he wielded just plain dwarfed everyone else. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end. The rumors had been that he had taken Kirkwall apart brick by brick. Varric had convinced her that was incorrect - but she had let herself forget that it was the motive that was a lie, not the ability to do so.

Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully; on the other side of the clearing, Hawke looked up from casting a small healing spell on Varric’s arm and shot her a sloppy wink.

 _Idiotic, lunatic monster_ , she corrected.

_...But monster nonetheless._

 

**viii. In which Hawke's definition of "sweet" differs from the norm.**

“So, are those stories about you and Danar - ah, the, ah, run-away slave true?”

The Champion glanced pointedly at the huge glowing stalagmites of red lyrium, and then back at Dorian’s face. An eyebrow quirked.

“Do you think now is really the best time to discuss my passionate romance?” He asked mildly.

“I’d just like to know how likely I am to be disemboweled if I don’t bring you back in one piece.”

“Oh! Not at all! Fenris is chasing slavers up north - I doubt news of the Inquisition’s reached him yet.”

“Oh good. It’s simply that - ”

“Also, if it’s someone who’s hurt me he prefers to just rip their heart out with his bare hands. More personal that way, you see. He’s quite an old-fashioned romantic where it counts!”

Hawke sighed fondly and Dorian, face suddenly pale, redoubled his efforts to find a way back.

 

**ix. In which an alternate explanation for the nerfing is given.**

“Varric, do you feel like I’m weaker here than I was in Kirkwall?”

Cassandra sputtered, but Varric drew closer to Hawke, frowning thoughtfully.

“You do seem a bit less flashy out here in the Hinterlands,” he admitted. “I thought you were just toning it down so as to not alarm the general populace.” At Hawke’s wounded look, he rolled his eyes. “Right, right, I shouldn’t have assumed.”

They both stared suspiciously at Hawke’s left hand, where the Mark still flickered.

“If I may,” interrupted Solas, and descended into intricacies of magic that left Cassandra and Varric’s eyes glazed and Hawke alternating between squinting at him and blinking rapidly.

“So what you’re saying is…” Hawke attempted to summarize. “A couple things are possible, but now that you know to look for it you might be able to tell.” At Solas’ brief nod, his grin brightened. “Right, only one way to find out, then!”

He brought his fingers to his mouth and gave a long piercing whistle. A nearby grizzly bear, who’d been minding his own business, looked up, head cocked, and charged. Cassandra groaned.

“That is clearly _not_ the only way to find out!!” she informed Hawke as she drew her sword.

The Champion shrugged and slammed his staff into the ground. From it, lightning sparks jumped and crackled towards the advancing bear.

It was all over in seconds.

“So..?” Hawke eagerly demanded.

Solas tilted his head briefly in thought, then spoke slowly.

“It is not the Mark. Indeed, I believe it may have something to do with the properties of Kirkwall itself. The Veil is thinner there, and the Fade is altered by our beliefs and desires. You _are_ the Champion of Kirkwall, after all. Perhaps the city itself recognized that and wanted to help.”

Hawke and Varric exchanged glances, Varric’s horrified, Hawke’s absolutely ecstatic.

“That’s my city,” he breathed. “That’s my girl. I knew she cared.”


	2. In which there's accidentally a lot of Fenris.

**x. In which Fenris gets a letter.**

Of all the things Fenris was grateful to Hawke for, it wasn’t helping him kill Danarius or forgiving him for his outbursts of loathing and self-loathing that Fenris most appreciated. No, what he most often silently thanked his lover for was teaching him how to read.

Of course, technically anyone could have taught him how to read - well, provided the Fenris of seven years ago could have put up with spending so much time with someone other than Hawke (unlikely), provided that person could have shrugged off Fenris’ embarrassment and frustration (unlikely), and provided Fenris had felt comfortable enough to ask in the first place (impossible). Still, even if by some miraculous intervention someone else had taught him to read, nobody but Hawke could have taught him how to decipher the man’s terrible scrawl.

To be honest, he wasn’t sure he was deciphering it correctly now.

_Dear Fenris,_

_I hope things are going great with you! Are things going great with you? Because things are going great with me! I am doing great! You might hear rumours to the contrary, but just know, they are lies because great is what I am doing!_

_Also, I’ve sort of been declared to kind of be Andraste’s Herald, just a bit. If you hear that, that’s not a lie. I mean it’s not true that I’m Her chosen, but it’s true that they call me that. And I think I might be the leader of the Inquisition, but I’m not sure how official that is. We’re making things up on the fly here_ ~~_and they expect me to figure shit out for them oh Maker Fenris it’s_ ~~ (this was crossed out very thoroughly, but Fenris had spent long enough staring at the letter to make it out) _which is_ great _because that’s how life in Kirkwall was too. So I’m great!_

 _Also, the Knight-Captain’s here and he’s not allowed to touch a hair on my head, no matter how much magic I do, so I’m enjoying making him jump._ (A scribble of a terrified Cullen Rutherford and a Hawke with demon horns going _Boo!_ behind him accompanied this.) _And of course Varric’s here, so I have someone to watch my back, don’t worry, I know you worry._

 _Also,_ _very important_ (this was underlined three times) _: if you see a weird green shimmering portal thing, get civilians out of the area but DO NOT ENGAGE ON YOUR OWN. You can’t close it yourself: the demons just keep coming through in waves. They’re rifts to the Veil. Just get everyone out and fence the area off, if you can. And send a message to the Inquisition because_ ~~ _I can_~~ _we have someone who can close them._

_Alright, I have to go, but I love you so, so much. I’m sending you a thousand kisses!!!!!_

_Your Hawke._

And that was that. Fenris had tried to read the letter in dozens of other ways. He’d tried to read the _u_ ’s as _n_ ’s and the _n_ ’s as _r’_ s, he’d tried to figure out if there was a secret code beyond the actual words on the page. Nothing.

Another, shorter letter accompanied this one. It had arrived at roughly the same time.

 _Elf_ ,

 _As you may have surmised, Hawke and I (but mainly Hawke) have gotten ourselves into a bit of trouble. But_ don’t worry _: nobody wants his head; as always, our boy has risen to the top. The reason I’m writing to you is because he’s a bit ~~marooned~~ ~~lost~~ ~~secretly freaking out~~ untethered lately. Nothing too bad, but if you have time to stop by, the whole Inquisition would probably be grateful. _

_Happy slaver-hunting otherwise._

_Varric_

So: two letters that explicitly told him not to worry. Fenris let out a bark of laughter, crumpling up Varric’s letter - so much less precious than Hawke’s - in his hands. Hawke… was an idiot. Apparently his idiocy had rubbed off on the dwarf.

And what was the vague hint at Hawke being the leader of the Inquisition about? Fenris had been out of touch with current events in general for months now - and the chaos in the south meant all reports were contradictory at best, besides. But the Hawke he knew, the one he’d said _I’m yours_ to hundreds of times, had no interest in command. The only person he knew who rivalled his lover for lust for freedom was Isabela; Hawke had always thrived in and striven for a sort of laid-back, cheerful pandemonium. Hawke giving orders outside the worst heat of battle was something he could imagine scarcely better than Hawke _following_ orders.

Fenris rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. There were slavers left, of course. But he was near the thrice-cursed border: there were always slavers left.

And it _would_ be very satisfying to give both of his friends a piece of his mind for their elusiveness.

“Fasta vass,” murmured the elf. “You’ll be the death of me yet, Hawke.”

Then he pulled on his cloak.

 

  
**xi. In which Hawke is very cold.**

As Hawke trudged through the snow, he cursed himself for his stupidity. Because if he really admitted it to himself, it was just that: stupidity. It wasn’t quite recklessness, and it _definitely_ wasn’t courage. It was stupidity, the kind that Fenris would berate him for, the thinnest possible note of fondness in his voice, and the kind that would make his brother glare at him in disgust.

Maker’s breath he missed Fenris. Honestly, by this point he missed Carver too.

He just _had_ to bring a mountain down on himself.

It was by far the stupidest thing he’d ever done. Alright, it had worked fine as plans went, but really, it was the _stupidest_ -

Hang on, _was_ it the stupidest thing he’d ever done?

Hawke breathed a small flame to warm his hands as he continued his trudging further into the cave. He was cold, he was _freezing_ , and his sense of direction was worse than horrible everywhere outside of the one particular city he could navigate in his sleep. In a few hours, he was going to die.

 _On the other hand_ , one time Hawke had drunkenly promised Merrill he could run around Kirkwall barefoot too. It had taken him five minutes to require limping off to Anders, and it had taken Anders a good hour to pull all the glass shards out of his feet. And one time, he’d been so drunk he’d started heating up the gross, cold cheesy chips from the all-night takeaway stall with a little fireball. Right in the middle of the Gallows. Aveline had tackled him to put it out. And _multiple_ times, after downing some liquid courage, he’d hammered on the gates to the Qunari compound, yelling about challenging the Arishok to a muscle flexing competition. And one time, after eight rounds of shots each, he, Merrill, and Anders had -

His hand hurt. It _hurt_. Hawke grit his teeth against the pain, then remembered there was no one there to hear him. So he howled his pain instead. What the everliving fuck had the Darkspawn _done_ to him?

So alright, alright. It wasn’t the stupidest thing he’d ever done. But it was the stupidest thing he’d ever done  _sober_ -

_Hawke, I need you to give something to Guardsman Donnic._

You know what, actually, dying of frostbite probably didn’t even count in the top ten. Hawke laughed weakly and trudged on.

 

**xii. In which Hawke gets a castle.**

“Scout to the north, Hawke. Be their guide.”

“Are you, ah, are you sure? I barely know where north is, when I can’t orientate myself by the Sundermount.”

Solas smiled slightly at the panicked expression on the Herald’s face. Of the mortals he’d met since waking up, Hawke was perhaps the most amusing.

“Calm yourself; I will show you the way. But _you_ are their symbol of hope and the one they look to for guidance.”

“...I think I might have preferred it when they looked at me as a symbol of destruction. At least for that I didn’t need a compass.”

 

**xiii. In which matters of faith are discussed.**

If Varric ever wrote _this_ particular conversation down, he had no idea what words he’d use.

_And then the Inquisitor and the handsome writer couldn’t meet each other’s eyes and stared instead at everything but each other. They had most likely never had a more awkward conversation, and most likely never would again. Because it was awkward._

Yeah, even people who ate up  _Swords & Shields_ wouldn't read that.

“But you don’t _actually_ mean it, right?” said Hawke, with a chuckle Varric could honestly only describe as awkward.

The dwarf sighed. He shouldn’t have brought it up in the first place. But it would have been more uncomfortable - aha, a synonym! - to leave it hanging between them, unspoken.

“Look, I know pretty much nothing about the more complicated religious stuff,” said Varric slowly. “But… I’ve seen you survive loads of things, Hawke. I’m very well-versed in the level of things you can survive. And I did _not_ expect to see you survive that mountain.”

His friend’s throat bobbed as he considered those words.

“I’m always lucky, Varric,” he said softly, pleadingly.

“You are. But not that lucky.”

Hawke clenched and unclenched his fists. At last he shot Varric a sickly smile.

“If they ask, I’m referring anyone who wants a new Canticle to _you_. I can’t carry a tune worth a damn.”

“Always, Hawke.”

  
  
**xiv. In which matters of faith are further discussed.**

“Is this all a huge joke to you?” Leliana said. Her voice dripped with bitterness and anguish. It seemed to her that the only one who’d come out of the Fade with his confidence unshaken was Hawke himself. “You never believed you were Her Herald - and here you are, the great Champion proven right once more. How pleased you must be!”

The small part of her mind that could never turn itself off was relieved that they were alone on the battlements; it wouldn’t do for the Inquisition to see a row between their Spymaster and their Inquisitor. Not now, especially.

“If I thought it was a joke, I wouldn’t have stayed,” Hawke replied quietly. “The Chantry has done little good for me and mine, and quite a lot of bad. But I stayed anyway.”

“Then why _did_ you stay?”

Suddenly it was very important to her that Hawke talk to her plainly, when he’d always evaded such questions before. The Inquisitor tugged at his ear, discomfort written in every line of his face.

“Well, Varric stayed. He has a good heart - better than mine at least. If he thought there was some worth in staying he was probably right.”

Of course the Inquisitor was joking at a time like this. He was always joking. Or perhaps he wasn’t. Leliana could tell when people tried to deceive her, mostly. There was too much truth in Hawke’s face for it to be a complete lie. She drew back from him, her eyes hooded and her lips pressed tight.

“That is it? You stayed for one person?”

“At first, sure,” said Hawke easily. “Before I saw the good we can do. Thedas is… a lot bigger than Kirkwall. But I’d gone to the Divine to see if I could help broker a peace between mages and templars. The overall goal didn’t change even if the enemy did.”

That was as honest as she’d ever get him. But she had to ask.

“And yet you never, not even for one second, believed you were Her chosen?”

A loud, disbelieving chortle burst from him.

“Andraste’s dimpled buttcheeks _no!_  Can you _imagine_ if she chose me? I’m a good Chantry-following boy, but honestly, if I was really Her Herald I’d declare atheism on general principle alone.”

“You would?” repeated Leliana blankly.

The Champion of Kirkwall, His Worship, the dread Inquisitor nodded firmly.

“Hello, have you met me? I’m a firm believer that one shouldn’t follow a crazy god.”

This time, when he laughed, she joined in.

 

**xv. In which Hawke gets a letter.**

Hawke tugged at his sash, then flicked at a gold button. His breast pocket felt oddly empty. For three weeks now, it had held a well-worn, oft-read letter. Fenris’ letter. It was short, as they all were, and painfully to the point. The print was small and arduously neat; this was probably draft three.

Dear Hawke, it told him. His beloved was travelling through Orlais, and he might, if it turned out to be possible, _might_ (keywords for Hawke not to get his hopes up that didn’t stop his hopes in the slightest) swing by the ball.

Dress accordingly, the mage’s mind supplied. Not that Fenris had ever shown the slightest interest in what his lover was wearing. As long as it didn’t have too many holes through which people could stab him, the elf was happy. In a broody, Fenris sort of way, obviously. Still, he was apparently travelling through Orlais now, and Hawke fretted that it might have rubbed off on him.

If it had, this uniform, which contained more red than most paintings of Andraste’s pyre, would not help. All of the Inquisition was wearing them. (Dorian and Vivienne had heard they’d have to wear the monstrosities if they wanted to come, and both had immediately declined the honor. Which was fine by Hawke - he wasn’t sure if Fenris attempting to tear out the altus’ heart in the middle of the dance floor or Fenris getting along swimmingly with Vivienne would be more distressing.) Josephine had approved of the uniform because with it, they presented a unified front, and Hawke had approved of it because he generally liked bright colours. But Fenris didn’t. He probably didn’t. The only colour he wore was Hawke’s colour - red. So maybe he did like red?

Ugh, he was babbling to _himself._ This was becoming tragic.

“Nervous about seeing your booooyfriend?” chirped someone behind him.

Hawke spun around wildly and had to douse the reflexive burst of telekinetic energy he'd summoned. The palace garden’s torches shone splendidly; the tall windows of the palace itself cast bright light. Here up on the terrace, anybody would see the smallest display of magic. He found Sera giggling at him. She wiggled her eyebrows lasciviously (and ferociously).

“Don’t get your panties in a twist!” she said. “He’ll be here.”

“How do you know?” asked Hawke morosely.

She shrugged. “Maybe a little birdy told me.”

He considered that. Sera’s sources were not to be underestimated, and an ex-slave with a low-key grudge against nobility was probably more exciting for her type of people than, say, Josie’s. (Or rather, he was probably very exciting for some of Josie’s people, i.e. those who turned a blind eye to slavers in their fiefdom, but the excitement was, as it were, generally short-lived.)

“You’re right, I’m - ”

“ _H_ a _wke._ ”

It was the warm, low voice that was as familiar to him as his own. Hawke rushed to lean over the terrace's railings. Fenris was looking up at him. He was dressed in simple, dark leathers; a crimson sash that he must have liberated from an Inquisition soldier was draped over his chest and the Hawke crest hung from his belt, boasting proudly of his allegiances.

Hawke promptly forgot Sera was there, he forgot all of Josie’s careful advice, he forgot this was Halamshiral and not Kirkwall. The Champion swung himself over the balcony and flung himself at his lover. Fenris, for all of Hawke’s hard-earned muscles, caught him easily. The elf laughed softly in his ear. Hawke concentrated on breathing in deeply. He hadn't noticed how much tension had tightened his shoulders until it had drained away.

“I missed you,” he said finally.

“I believe someone promised me a thousand kisses,” replied Fenris quietly.

Going inside the palace could wait. Hawke always strove to keep promises to his loved ones.

 

**xvi. In which Hawke is ready to start a war, dammit.**

“Excuse me, were you saying that to us?” said the Inquisitor politely.

He turned around slowly and Josephine thanked the Maker that she and Leliana happened to be nearby. The elf at Hawke’s side wore a coolly impassive expression, but the Inquisitor himself was beaming. It was a manic grin: all sharp teeth and burning eyes. Josephine thought that he most likely wasn’t even aware of how his muscles were visibly straining under his tight uniform, as if he had to concentrate very hard to keep himself still, or how the tiniest sparks of lightning were jumping across his fingertips.

The comte who’d uttered the scathing little barb, aimed at the Inquisitor’s elven lover, hid his sudden terror behind an elaborate purple mask. But the mask couldn’t cover up the comte’s shaking knees.

“It’s pretty funny!” Hawke’s voice boomed into the spreading hush around them. “Duke Prosper said something similar once too. Is it an Orlesian thing, do you think, Fenris?”

The elf sighed a little and drawled, “I don’t know, Hawke. Most of my memories of Chateau Haine are of how long it took to wash the blood out of my clothes after.”

“True, true: his pet wyvern’s blood, _his_ blood…”

And _that_ was Josephine’s cue to step in.

“I’m afraid it is an Orlesian ‘thing’, Your Worship!” she said.

Now the Inquisitor and his lover’s gazes pierced her instead, the elf’s assessing, the Inquisitor’s so dark, despite his plastered smile, that she had to work hard not to step back. She thought she understood, for the first time, what the Inquisition's enemies saw in battle. That was the problem with their leader: he did whatever he wanted to and _didn’t_ think about the consequences later. He left that up to his advisers.

“They do not use the Orlesian word _beau_ in Kirkwall, I believe, but in Orlais it has become quite fashionable once again. Perhaps the comte’s thick accent and the noise from the crowd prevented you from hearing him properly?”

It was a stretch, Josephine knew. _Beau_ sounded only distantly like _whore_ , and _beau_ made little sense in the whole phrase’s context in any case. But it was the best she had.

And help came from unexpected quarters. The elf inclined his head just the slightest bit and added gravely, “That must be it. Hawke’s hearing has never quite recovered from an early misadventure with a rock wraith.”

His Worship’s full focus shifted at once from Josephine and the comte to yelping indignantly at his lover’s words. When the elf turned on his heel and strode off, a small smirk on his face, the Inquisitor trailed after him, protesting.

Leliana stepped up to the comte before his knees gave out fully.

“Why, Your Lordship, you’re overcome with nerves at meeting the Herald of Andraste!” she declared, loud enough for the nobles around them to hear. “Let me help you to a chair and fetch you a drink. And on the way you can tell me all about dear young Anais - she’s just applied to the University of Orlais, no? Children - how quickly they grow…”

 

**xvii. In which Hawke can put the puzzle pieces together.**

“And _this_ is Sera, our long-lost daughter.”

Hawke slung an arm around Sera and beamed. She, in turn, screeched and tried to shove him off. Cassandra and Cullen choked on their drinks, Bull roared with laughter, Josephine let out a strangled little yelp, and Varric buried his face into his cards, shoulders twitching. Fenris just raised an eyebrow.

“Excuse me?” he said.

The long-lost daughter in question was considerably less composed.

“Oi, are you sloshed?!”

“It’s pretty obvious,” Hawke explained matter-of-factly, ignoring Sera’s spirited attempts to kick him in the face. “She hates magic, like you. She hates Dalish stuff, like you.”

“Piss off and die in a gutter, Hawke!”

“She likes pranking for justice, like me. She has a fantastic fashion sense, like me.”

“He’s gone crazy, he’s literally gone crazy. Cassandra, Cullen, he’s a rogue mage, take him out!”

“So you see, it just makes sense!”

“Hmm…” said Fenris.

He fixed Sera with a stare so intense that she stopped fighting Hawke. She glared back at the other elf. The table around them held their breath and watched with interest. But only Hawke and Fenris were close enough to notice that she curled into the Inquisitor, defensively, just a tiny bit. Hawke’s arm around her tightened automatically.

Fenris broke eye-contact first. He took a small sip of his wine.

“Only if you admit she got that scowl from your side of the family. She looks just like Carver at that age.”

And whatever Sera had to say in response to that was drowned out by a loud whoop from Hawke.

 

**xviii. In which Hawke doesn't actually appear.**

“So you hate mages?” Sera glanced sideways at the elf sharpening his sword next to her. She fiddled with her own arrowheads. “Why’re you with him then?”

“Why are you?” Fenris countered calmly. He didn’t look up from the sword.

Sera sputtered.

“Well I’m not with him like you’re with him! Yuck!”

“And I don’t hate all mages,” Fenris said and put the sword aside.

He turned to face the young woman head on. At the look on his face Sera groaned.

“Oh no. I thought you were fun, like Inky, but you’re about to give me a lecture, aren’t you?”

The corners of his lips turned upwards.

“Just a few words of advice.”

“Well cram your advice where the sun don’t shine. Lemme guess,” she pitched her voice an octave lower. “At your age, all I did was hate, but then blablabla I learned - ”

“No. At your age, all I did was love.” Sera’s jaw slammed shut and she stared, wide-eyed, at Fenris as he spoke. “I adored the mage who owned me, my _master_. He was my own personal god and I worshipped and loved him with every breath I took. I learned to _hate_ when I was a few years older than you. I hated for many years and to be honest, I don’t regret them.” The warrior shrugged and picked up his sword again. “But Hawke taught me there can be a balance - and to take care that the scale doesn’t tip in hate's favour.”

After his words, there was a long moment of silence. Sera’s eyes flickered to Fenris’ careful fingers, to the tattered red token on his forearm, to the sober expression on his face. She shuddered theatrically.

“Didn't realise you were _both_ soppy. You two are so disgusting I’m gonna spew,” she announced and ran off.

But when a few months later, a certain elven mage called Merrill arrived, and Sera didn't try to stick her full of arrows once, Hawke decided Fenris was secretly a pretty fantastic long-lost father after all.


	3. In which elf matters are discussed.

**xix. In which Hawke asks for a favour returned.**

Unfortunately, it wasn’t particularly uncommon for Solas’ work to be interrupted with a loud, cheerful cry of  _Solas!_

Sometimes the cry arrived scant seconds before the Inquisitor did, landing with a quick shoulder roll from his dive off some higher floor in the tower. (If he was in the middle of a particularly engrossing text, Solas found himself rather uncharitably hoping that Hawke would break his ankles on his way down.)

Sometimes, as now, the cry accompanied the door crashing open and Hawke sliding into his chamber. Today he was accompanied by a Dalish elf with jet-black hair, a mage staff, and Falon’din’s vallaslin carved into her face. Solas quirked an eyebrow at the picture they made: Hawke was holding the elf’s wrist firmly; she had a slightly bewildered expression on her face, as though overwhelmed by the Inquisitor's boisterousness.

“Andaran atish’an,” said Solas and stood politely. “And good afternoon, Hawke.”

The young woman greeted him back equally politely; Hawke let go of her to prop one hand on his hip and examine the nails on his other hand in a mock nonchalant manner. As always, Solas felt an unwilling surge of amusement at the Inquisitor’s charlatan ways. What? He _was_ known as the Trickster God.

“So!” said Hawke, studying his (admittedly creatively filthy) nails. “You remember how you asked me a favour and I didn’t ask any questions and immediately dropped my search for useful Warden artefacts and ran halfway across Orlais for you?”

“The Warden artefacts that you’d whined about searching for for weeks beforehand?” inquired Solas, a little stiffly. He had a feeling he knew where this was going.

Hawke made a face at him.

“So you do have a very clear recollection of that favour I did for you?” he persisted.

“I do, yes.”

“Well, she,” he pointed at the elf. “Is my return favour. I’m asking you to teach her - or, or share your books with her, or whatever you personally consider enough for us to be even.”

Solas crossed his arms over his chest. The look he cast the Inquisitor was cool; his previous wave of affection was ebbing away. He’d mentioned his attempts to teach the Dalish elves to Hawke before. He had no desire to repeat the experience. Moreover, he would _not_ be manipulated in such a lazy, brusque way.

Hawke interrupted him before he could talk his way out. The human dropped his arms along with his pretense.

“Look, couldn’t you give her a… trial? I’ve brought you the one Dalish elf who’ll _definitely_ listen to everything you say without judgment. Surely that’s worth something to you. It’s worth everything to her, and quite a lot to me.”

That made Solas hesitate. Unexpectedly, a phrase Varric had quoted once popped up in his mind. _Getting an education_ _is a bit like a communicable sexual disease. It makes you unsuitable for a lot of jobs and then you have the urge to pass it on_. If the young woman truly wished to learn, Solas truly wished to teach - enough to satiate her curiosity at least, if obviously not all he knew. On the other hand, the light-hearted, optimistic Inquisitor was not necessarily an accurate judge of character. It was hard to predict how a person would react to their whole worldview and culture being proven incorrect. And most importantly, _he would not be controlled_.

But again, Solas was interrupted before he could speak. A loud, high-pitched gasp came from the other side of the room. The Dalish elf in question had wandered off while Hawke and Solas were talking. Now she was bent over one of the texts Solas had left open on a convenient chair.

Noticing the abrupt stop in conversation noise, she looked up. Solas was taken aback by how brightly her eyes shined.

“You have Keeper Leolin’s notes on spirits and demons!” she breathed. “I thought they were all burned when the Arlathvhen in 8:73 declared them heresy. I’d searched for them _forever_. I was so sure they had a better description of how demons come to be than what we’re taught. I can’t believe there’s a copy left! Where did you find them? Are they - oh!” she stopped herself, shame-faced. “Am I talking too much? I still talk too much. Ir abelas, hahren.”

And despite himself, Solas softened. There was an intensity in the elf’s eyes, a lust for knowledge for its own sake. As long as he didn’t look in Hawke’s direction and ignored the smug grin directed his way, he could concentrate on the familiar satisfaction of talking with an enthusiastic pupil.

“ _T_ _here is nothing to forgive_ ,” he said, switching to the version of elvish that the Dalish spoke (so close to his language and yet foreign on his tongue). “ _K_ _eeper Leolin’s notes are indeed excellent, but rather oblique without Keeper Tianne’s treatise - which, yes, I also have_.”

The delight that lit up her face was indescribable.

Hawke snorted.

“And that’s my cue to leave, I think,” he said. “By the way - Merrill, this is Solas. Solas, this is Merrill.”

But the two elves were already so engrossed in their discussion that when they emerged from it, four hours later, they had to reintroduce themselves again.

 

**xx. In which Hawke goes a bit red.**

“Raucous and reverent. You go to your knees before him, just to see his face at it, just because he’s never been the one standing before. His breath stutters and you cover up your love with a joke. Why? Don’t you want him to know your devotion, your desire, your - ”

“Aaand let’s stop right there, kid. Nobody wants to hear what other _d_ ’s Hawke wants Fenris to know.”

“ _Varric I am going to murder you slowly._ ”

“What are you talking about, Varric? What other - ”

“Please stop attempting to corrupt a spirit of compassion, you two.”

“Me?! What did I do? It’s not my fault Cole was looking around my head right when I was, er, missing Fenris.”

“I’m sorry. You were missing him very loudly.”

“ _Varric, Iron Bull, shut up I am going to murder you_ both _slowly .”_

“You’re better off staying inside your own head for this trip, kid. You’re surrounded by a bunch of lewd old men - won’t find anything worthwhile. And don’t give me that thousand metre stare, you can’t tell me you haven’t seen some freaky, kinky shit in the Fade.”

“...Hm, yes, well.”

“...And that raises a lot of questions I don’t need answered, thank you, Solas. Chop chop, Inquisition, let’s get to the cave before I have to stab my eardrums out with Cole’s dagger. Great.”

 

**xxi. In which there’s a lot of yelling and a tiny bit of horrible iambic pentameter.**

“HEY, SERA, WANNA COME WITH ON OUR NEXT MISSION?”

“WHO’S GOING? WHERE’RE YOU GOING?”

“AN ANCIENT ELVEN TEMPLE.”

“Oh great, shout out all the Inquisition's secret plans, real smooth.”

“WITH FENRIS, SOLAS, AND MERRILL. OH, AND MORRIGAN. IT’LL BE A GREAT ELVEN BONDING EXP - ”

“ARE YOU TRYING TO MURDER ME, HAWKE, OR ARE YOU HOPING I GET MAD ENOUGH TO MURDER _YOU?_ THERE’S EASIER WAYS TO OFF YOURSELF, Y’KNOW.”

“I JUST NEED SOMEONE WHO CAN KEEP FENRIS COMPANY IN HIS UNHAPPINESS.”

“Excuse me?”

“I WAS GONNA ASK VARRIC, BUT HIS LEGS ARE KINDA SHORT FOR ANCIENT ELVEN TEMPLES.”

“Hey, fuck you, Hawke.”

“TO SWEETEN THE DEAL, I’LL HELP YOU WITH ANY PRANK YOU WANT FOR THE NEXT MONTH. EVEN THE STUPID ONES. YES, EVEN THE ONE WITH THE CHICKEN, IRON BULL'S FEATHER DUSTER, AND CULLEN’S TEACUP.”

“What about my feather duster?”

"Your feather duster?! What about my  _cup_ _?_ "

“...ALRIGHT, FIIINE, FINE. AS LONG AS - ”

“ _WILL YOU TWO PLEASE SHUT UP?! MEET AT_  ONE  _FLOOR YOU CHOOSE, IF YOU SO WISH TO TALK. YOU PRICKS!!”_

“Sorry, Maryden.”

“PISS OFF, MARYDEN.”

 

**xxii. In which there’s a nerd-off (because I love you Morrigan but come on).**

“Ah yes, and _this_ is the goddess Andruil - ” Morrigan began.

“Oh!” squeaked Merrill excitedly. “She looks different from the depictions I grew up with! In my clan, her arrows were always pictured pointing upwards - towards the monsters of air that Ghilan'nain had gifted her. But here they’re pointing down! Is it common for the southern clans? I suppose they must be pointing towards the Abyss!”

Solas nodded at her and said, “Yes, I believe you’re right. From what I have seen in my travels, there seems to be a sort of regional divide: northern clans have her pointing towards Ghilan’nain’s creatures, while southern clans have her pointing towards the Forgotten Ones.”

“Andruil… She’s the one who went mad hunting creepy things in the Void, innit?” said Sera, examining the mosaic with mild interest. “Got bored, went to the Void, hunted things, went mad, got beat up by Mythal, the end.”

“That’s not all she hunted,” said Fenris sourly. “She’s the Goddess of Sacrifice: the Dalish whisper that she stalked mortals as well, and her own worshippers prayed to not get slaughtered by her like wild animals. She’s the worst of the lot.”

“Oh! She’s the one who created the Vir Tanadhal!” added Hawke, cheerfully butchering the elvish pronunciation as usual. “Fly straight, bend but don’t break, together we are stronger. Easier said than done, eh?”

There was a long silence as Morrigan, Solas, and Merrill stared at the other three. Sera crossed her arms, Fenris narrowed his eyes, and Hawke stuck his nose in the air.

“Just because it’s all bullshit doesn’t mean I don’t know it, alright?” said Sera defensively. “I’m not an idiot. Arses.”

“A lot of the elves I’ve rescued recently have been Dalish,” Fenris shrugged. “Eventually it rubs off on you.”

That left Hawke. As one, everyone turned to him.

“And I,” he sniffed. “Just listen when my friends talk. I’m a fantastic listener.”

At the disbelieving glances of four of his five companions, he added, “When it’s important!”

The stares continued, with some very highly-raised disbelieving eyebrows thrown in as bonus.

“When it’s interesting?”

The disbelieving stares and eyebrows were followed by lips twitching with the effort of not bursting into disbelieving laughter.

“...Fine, fine, when it includes huge-monsters-who-are-possibly-dragons.”

"Ahhh..." said a harmony of four voices.

 

**xxiii. In which there’s some drinking.**

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s two humans and four elves here. We’re very clearly outnumbered - why in Andraste’s name would one of us drink it?”

Morrigan scoffed.

“Race is unimportant. 'Tis  _history_. I have been studying it for years and I am the only one who can - ”

“Do _you_ want it, Fenris?”

“What? No!”

“Oh, good! I thought I’d offer, but even with both of us not being history buffs, I’d rather you weren’t bound to the will of anything but my charming smile.”

He winked and shot him an example of said smile.

“ _Hawke…_ ”

“What about you, Solas?”

“No thank you,” came the prompt, mildly amused response.

“Sera?”

The answer was an anatomically incorrect but very unambiguous gesture.

“Alright, as I expected, Merrill it is then!”

To the surprise of both Hawke and Fenris, she hesitated.

"Are you - are you sure, Hawke?" Merrill's fingers tightened around her staff and her eyes flickered to Morrigan. "To the other Dalish elves, I'm... I'm probably worse than a human would be. What if - "

"Merrill. I love you, I trust you. This is what you've been working so hard for. Of course I'm sure."

Hawke stretched out his hand and after a second more of hesitation, Merrill slapped his palm firmly with her own. Then she turned and, head held high, walked into the water.

(When they found out about the geas and Flemeth's will, Morrigan's frustration and fury turned to relief. But when Hawke found out Merrill got to  _tame a freaking dragon holy shit_ , his congratulations tasted bitter in his mouth. Which just goes to show... something.)

 

**xxiv. In which a certain issue needs to be addressed.**

Fenris noticed the Tevinter mage immediately.

He and Hawke were sitting side-by-side, leaning against the tavern’s wall. That was partially because he was amusing himself moving his hand further up his lover’s thigh very, very slowly while the mage twitched and pretended not to notice. It was also partially because they’d both been on the run, from slave hunters and from templars, for a good portion of their lives and had never bothered to break the habit of paranoia. Thus, when a new person entered The Herald’s Rest, Fenris’ eyes scanned over the man automatically, and then stayed fixated on Dorian Pavus’ face.

He tried not to tense and failed miserably.

Hawke had written to him of Pavus; he’d explained that the mage wanted to reform their homeland, that he detested blood magic, that Hawke had argued his throat hoarse to get him to see past his ignorance about Tevinter slavery. Fenris knew also that no one of the Pavus family ran in the same circles as Danarius, that if the altus had seen him as a slave then it had only been on the most formal of occasions, when their eyes had surely slid past each other.

He tensed anyway. Perhaps it was in the way he’d recognised Pavus instantaneously: the casual arrogance and assumption of power.

Beside him, Hawke darted a quick look at his face and then followed Fenris’ eyeline to the doorway. He slid his hand over the elf’s, squeezing lightly. He slouched further and his expression adjusted itself into a breezy, nonchalant grin - his neutral trade face, the one that told Fenris he was more than content to let his lover take the lead.

When the altus, his own gaze aimlessly roaming over the crowd, saw Fenris, he recognised the other immediately too. Of course, Fenris was a lot more noticeable. Danarius had seen to that, and he was pressed tightly against the Champion's side besides. Pavus blanched slightly, then squared his shoulders and strode over to the pair.

Fenris settled back in his chair and lifted his chin. Mostly because his first instinct was still to stand up and bow. He hadn’t met Tevinter nobles outside of battle for a long time.

“Avanna,” said Pavus. He hesitated for a moment and then added, “Sitis in bonis animis.”

And those four little words made Fenris flinch bodily. It was as if Pavus had scalded him with hot water. He breathed out harshly. Hawke’s hand tightened around his, though his expression remained bland.  _May you be in a good mood_. It was the standard greeting among the nobility, one that Fenris had heard most every day of his life in Tevinter. It had, naturally, never been directed at him. He'd never _expected_  for it to be directed at him. It was a greeting meant for equals.

Fenris nodded tightly at the altus; his irritation at his own reaction clogged his throat. He couldn’t decipher the look on Pavus’ face. Two high spots of red brightened the mage’s cheeks.

“I can leave, if you’d like,” he offered quietly in Common.

He would too, thought Fenris. And Hawke wouldn’t protest, would side with him on this one without blinking. So the elf shrugged one shoulder, deliberately insolent.

“It’s a large tavern. And if there’s three people with good taste in wine here, maybe the bartender will finally bring out the Sun Blonde Vinte.”

A small smirk pulled at Pavus’ lips, though the colour in his cheeks remained.

“Ah, a man after my own heart!” he exclaimed. “I shall go pester him for it at once. By your leave, Inquisitor.”

He swept them both a shallow bow, adding about as much flourish to it as the Champion generally did, and wandered off. Fenris downed the rest of his glass and poured himself another. Hawke brought the hand he was still holding to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to it; he grinned at his lover softly. Fenris hoped Pavus was successful in his acquisition.

 

**xxv. In which Fenris is totally not Dorian’s friend, but does come with some benefits.**

That first, amicable meeting didn’t mean that Fenris and Pavus became close, of course. They did share eerily similar drinking habits; when he, Pavus, and Krem happened to all be at The Herald’s Rest at the same time, the bartender sent for the good wines immediately. Apart from that, Fenris tended to avoid the mage unless Hawke needed them both for something.

Even so, they couldn’t fully avoid stumbling into a few arguments about slavery in Tevinter, so vehement and furious that Varric shouldered his way between them, a hand on Bianca and her safety off.

Still, when, a few months later, Pavus received a letter from his father and asked Fenris to accompany him and Hawke, the warrior agreed easily enough.

And sure, Hawke, who missed his mother with all his heart despite the jagged scars her vicious barbs had left him, didn’t let any of them kill the magister. He even encouraged an armistice of sorts between father and son. But oh, the look on Halward Pavus' face when he saw his son accompanied by a famed magister-killer... It made the whole thing worth it.

 

**xxvi. In which Hawke whacks stuff.**

“My dear,” drawled Vivienne. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re holding a _mage staff_. You needn’t use brute force on the poor creature.”

Hawke, panting and covered head to toe in blood spatters and gore, straightened up from the Deepstalker carcass.

“But how else will I keep my gorgeous muscles up to par?”

He flexed a bicep, preening, and the Iron Bull and Cassandra snorted in unison.

“Why do you need those muscles in the first place?” asked Cassandra. “I have never met a mage who cared.”

“You had an older brother, right?” She nodded stiffly and Hawke continued. “Well, any older brother with a little sister needs to have the strength to give her a piggyback ride.” His face darkened. “And any older brother with a little brother needs to be able to show that punk what's what.”

The Bull chuckled. “You’re not bad, Boss, but your brother is a fully trained Templar. You’d need a lot more tricks to go toe-to-toe with him in a fist fight.”

“ _I_ know that,” said Hawke with a sly grin. “(And you know that, which is a little creepy.) But Carver remembers The Great Debacle of Bethany’s Hair-Pulling of 9:23. I just need to look tough enough that he doesn’t realise I can’t repeat it.” At Cassandra’s skeptical look, he shrugged. “Carver’s not the brightest.”

“Thank the Maker it doesn’t run in the family,” Vivienne said tartly. “Look sharp, there’s more coming.”

Hawke bowed to the other mage, twirled his staff with a complex flourish, and slammed it into the ground, ready to face the next wave.

 

**xxvii. In which Hawke goes a bit red again.**

The soft breeze ruffled Hawke’s hair. It was peaceful here, in this graveyard of stone corpses. The familiar figure of Solas strode towards the Eluvian, now apparently unconcerned, too _powerful_ to be concerned, to look behind him. His gait and posture resembled the elven apostate’s so little Hawke would not have been able to place him in a crowd.

The Inquisitor opened his mouth to call out to him. _P_ _ain_ hit him. It was strong enough to knock the human to the ground. A loud, strangled groan escaped him. His breathing came in short, quick gasps. His fingers clawed at the dirt helplessly. He didn’t want to die on his knees before this unexpected stranger.

The second it took for Solas to turn lasted a lifetime.

“Inquisitor,” he said.

“ _Fen’Harel_.”

A ghost of a smile graced Solas’ lips at that ragged snarl. He concentrated and his eyes flashed white. Suddenly, Hawke could breathe steadily again. His left arm was numb to the shoulder. He staggered back up, leaning heavily on his staff.

“So Merrill finally figured it out,” said the elf.

“No, you arse,” said Hawke. He’d never considered himself too smart, but now he was flinging himself off a cliff into the waiting arms of sheer idiocy. It felt good. He'd always wanted to fly. “ _I_ figured it out. Like I said, I listen when my friends talk.”

Solas nodded at that, still smiling. He didn’t look the least bit bothered or surprised by Hawke’s words. Probably when you were a god, _arse_ from an insignificant human didn’t even register as blasphemy on your radar.

“Well done,” he said. “You always enjoyed asking questions. I imagine you have more.”

“Yeah. _Is it my fault?_ ”

Solas cocked his head.

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” growled Hawke. “I told you, _I listen when my friends talk_. After the Well... you asked me what I’d do if I woke up to find that I’d fucked up the future I’d created. And ignorant, idealistic Hawke told you that he’d try again, and keep trying again, until he finally put things right. Just like I’ve been trying to do since I helped my friend start a war - since I let my sister die. _You thanked me for those words_. So: is it my fault, wolf?”

“No,” said Solas. For a moment he finally seemed to Hawke to still be the man he’d fought with for a year: a little smug, perhaps, but a good friend, kind and wise and permanently amused by Hawke's cheek. “I set myself on this path long before I met you, Hawke. Your words… gave me a few breaths of comfort, but there was nothing you could have truly said to sway me. You need not add my sins to the ones your shoulders already carry.”

Hawke’s fingers twitched around his staff and he stared blankly at Solas’ feet for some time. His lips were still pulled into a deep scowl. Then the tension left him and he laughed tiredly.

“Absolution from a god, is it?”

“Some words of comfort, to repay a favour to an old friend.”

The human ran a hand through his hair and straightened.

“Right. Right. Let’s get down to business then, _lethallin…_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Varric's quote about education as an STI is a slight bastardisation of a Pratchett quote. ;)
> 
> ...If this was a proper fic, drabble 27 would probably be the last one in the fic. :V Maybe I'll rearrange these in chronological order at some point.

**Author's Note:**

> Just found this old, silly collection of drabbles in my google drive. :V And then added some more cuz why not! If you have any prompts/situations you'd like to see Hawke in, tell me and I'll see if I can include it!


End file.
